Hawk's Prey. Кэрол Мортимер
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preferred to call his ‘associates’. She had half expected the two men to be seated with them, the two of them accompanying him everywhere he went, but resisted the impulse to ask him why they weren’t and instead gave him a brightly glowing smile. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this meeting,’ she told him truthfully.
‘Really?’ Pale blue eyes looked at her coldly, although his mouth curved in answer to her smile.
Whitney felt her control of the situation slipping a little. Martin’s comparison to a barracuda had been wrong; this man was more like a shark, watching and waiting before he struck. But they were in a crowded London restaurant, for goodness’ sake; what could he possibly do to her here!
She pushed the unsatisfactory—to her—answer to that to the back of her mind, giving him a guileless smile. ‘Everyone likes to hear a success story, don’t they?’ she encouraged.
‘Do they?’ he drawled.
She gave a light laugh. ‘You must know that they do.’
‘Miss Morgan.’ He spoke in a bored voice. ‘What new angle on my success do you think you can come up with that the supplement of a—more prestigious—newspaper hasn’t already covered?’
She had read the article that had been run a couple of months ago, had been amazed at the gullibility on the part of the newspaper. But that was half of Tom Beresford’s success; the majority of people had no idea of the underhand methods he had used to get where he was. It was only if one dug deep enough, as she had, that the stench began to be apparent.
She gave him a sharp look as she thought the question over. Were the gloves to be taken off immediately then? No, she didn’t think so; not yet, anyway. ‘I write for a daily newspaper, Mr Beresford, with a circulation of two million a day. My story on you would run over two to three days.’
‘I’m really not in need of the free advertising, Miss Morgan,’ he drawled derisively.
Anger flared briefly in her eyes at his condescending tone before it was quickly dampened. Losing her temper with the man wasn’t going to help one bit!
‘Think of the New Year’s Honours List,’ she encouraged warmly. ‘The story of the ingenuity and success of your enterprise can only encourage all those young people leaving school without any prospect of employment that there’s hope for them after all.’
His mouth twisted sardonically. ‘Flattery, Miss Morgan?’ he mocked.
This man may once have been the ‘rough diamond’ she had thought him to be but the years had refined him, and his wealth had given him an arrogant confidence that was daunting. At sixty-two, he should have been paunchy and balding like Martin was, but Tom Beresford still had a head of thick silver hair, the very distinction of the style indicating the expensive cut, his body still lithe and athletic beneath the light grey suit and even paler grey silk shirt he wore. She was quickly learning, as he spoke with smooth assurance, that he was a man in complete control.
‘Not at all, Mr Beresford,’ she dismissed lightly. ‘Your story could be uplifting for a lot of people.’
‘I wasn’t aware James Hawkworth ran stories like this in his newspaper,’ he returned drily.
Whitney raised dark brows. ‘I wasn’t aware I had told you which newspaper I worked for.’
‘You didn’t,’ he confirmed smoothly. ‘A man in my position doesn’t meet just anyone who telephones out of the blue claiming to be a reporter. I naturally did my homework on you.’
‘Naturally,’ she echoed tightly, knowing just how intense that ‘homework’ had been. How had he got her unlisted telephone number?
‘And of course Geraldine recognised your name straight away,’ he added softly, his eyes narrowing as he waited for her reaction to the mention of the woman he had taken as his second wife after years of being a widower.
Geraldine. She still hadn’t recovered from the shock of finding out that Geraldine was married to this man, couldn’t begin to imagine how the other woman could prefer this man, for all his polished manner and wealth, to Hawk.
‘It isn’t exactly a common name,’ she acknowledged tautly, thoughts of Geraldine always having the effect of making her hackles rise. How Hawk could still love the woman—–? But he did, probably always would, even though she was now married to another man. Whitney didn’t particularly want to be around when he was told she was doing an exposé on Geraldine’s husband.
‘After meeting you and witnessing first-hand your uncommon beauty I can quite understand Hawk’s interest in you,’ Tom Beresford murmured appreciatively.
Whitney stiffened at the unexpected—and unwanted—flattery. ‘Didn’t Ger—your wife—also tell you that’s all over now?’ she said tightly.
‘You still work for him,’ he shrugged.
‘I’m treated like any other employee,’ she defended hotly. She wasn’t the one that was supposed to be on the defensive, damn it!
He raised thick silver brows. ‘I had no idea reporters earned enough money to be able to buy themselves five-thousand-pound watches!’
She blushed. ‘Mr Beresford—–’
‘I’m sorry, Whitney, that was a little personal of me,’ he held up his hands in apology. ‘I hope I can call you Whitney?’
‘Of course,’ she confirmed tautly, her eyes flashing deeply violet.
‘Shall we order?’ he enquired softly, signalling for the waiter as she abruptly nodded her consent to the suggestion.
For all the notice Whitney took of her fresh salmon salad it might as well have been the tinned variety. She had felt, before meeting him, that her in-depth knowledge of Tom Beresford gave her the edge in this interview; she had soon learnt how wrong she had been. Tom Beresford was adept at only choosing to talk about the things he wanted to, politely blocking off any questions that went beyond that invisible barrier he had erected. After almost an hour and a half, when she watched him make his way through a four-course meal and then coffee and brandy, Whitney had had enough, not tasting any of her own food in her agitation. And she was no nearer to finding out anything about his involvement with the local councils from his own lips than she had been when she first made the connection six months ago.
‘Why don’t you invite your bodyguards to join us for coffee?’ She deliberately antagonised him in the hope of getting some reaction by mentioning his two constant shadows.
Laughter in the pale blue eyes was not the reaction she had been hoping for! ‘Glyn and Alex know better than to intrude on me when I’m in the company of a beautiful woman,’ he drawled.
It was the second time he had called her beautiful, and Whitney found she didn’t like the idea of this man finding her attractive.
‘Don’t worry, Whitney,’ he assured mockingly, his eyes predatory. ‘You can’t become contaminated just by my acknowledging your beauty. That was what you were afraid of, wasn’t it?’ he taunted.
She became flushed at his correct assessment of her feelings. ‘What did you—–?’
‘I’m sure Hawk must have complimented you on your beauty numerous times,’ he cut in smoothly.
She gave him a frowning look. ‘Could we leave Hawk out of this?’
‘Of course,’ he agreed easily. ‘I don’t exactly enjoy talking about my wife’s previous lover.’
Whitney could have told him that had been in the plural rather than the singular, that Geraldine had never been satisfied with just one man in her life. But, like Hawk, he didn’t look as if he wanted to hear anything derogatory about the woman he had fallen in love with after several years of grieving for his previous wife. What was it about Geraldine that inspired such love! Her father had always said Geraldine was a man’s woman, and as far as Whitney